


Reasons

by Garunala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt Dean, Hurt Sam, Not a Deathfic, Post-Stanford, implied depression, implied suicidal Sam, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 21:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8593906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garunala/pseuds/Garunala
Summary: Dean finds a notebook in Sam´s duffel and can´t resist reading it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time publishing a fanfiction and I´m really nervous, especially since English is not my native language. Criticism is welcome as long as it´s constructive, I know I still have a lot to learn and would like to improve. This work deals with depression and implied suicidal thoughts, so if you get triggered you shouldn´t read it.

Black, leather bound notebooks were, in Dean´s opinion, not supposed to hold someone´s deepest secrets. What exactly they were supposed to contain he didn´t actually know, he´d never put much thought into it. Diaries, maybe, or notes on cases if you were a pretentious lawyer. Whatever.

In any case, Sam was not supposed to own a notebook like that, let alone use it. Yet there it was, tucked between two layers of plaid shirts in Sam´s duffel like a dirty little secret. Which it might very well be, therefore it was Dean´s duty as the big brother to read it, find out embarrassing stuff and use it to tease Sam endlessly. 

Maybe it actually was a diary or something. Dean huffed at the thought, shaking his head. If so, then he really would refer to Sam as princess forever and always. 

Curiously he thumbed it open, noting that it looked almost full, the pages filled with Sam´s neat, tidy handwriting. The headline on the first page caught him off guard, completely threw him off. “Reasons.” Was all it said, underlined twice with a straight line made with a ruler. Typical Sam, everything had to be in order. What did ´Reasons´ mean, though? Reasons for what?

With a strange feeling of foreboding Dean read on, brows furrowing as he took in the first points of what turned out to be a list. 

Dean and Dad would be angry. Dean and Dad would be disappointed. Dean would be hurt. It would make me weak. There is still hope for a future. The people we saved. The people we will save. The list continued like that, listing things that didn´t make any sense. 

(Can´t make any sense because even the thought it might mean- doesn´t make sense, period.) 

After three pages it just said Dean. Over and over again, four neat letters, again, again, again. It went on like that for five pages, then the pattern was broken. 

Proving to myself I can go on. 

As Dean continued reading the feeling in his stomach worsened until it felt like he might throw up. His name was a consistency in a list that didn´t repeat anything twice. Every single reason was different, individual, except for him. Sometimes it didn´t show up for pages, then it was woven in between other points, then again it filled entire pages. Seeing his name, black ink on white paper, repeated like that was shocking, made him feel slightly nauseous for reasons he couldn´t grasp. 

(Monsters in the basement, can´t let them out, don´t open the door.)

When he reached the end, he almost threw the notebook across the room. His name and Stanford alternated, like Sam had been warring with himself. 

(Was I not enough, Sammy, what did I do wrong, I don´t understand) 

With a deep breath Dean put the thing down, careful, as though it might bite his hand of if he jostled it. He didn´t know what the reasons were for, couldn´t know, wasn´t sure he wanted to know. 

(Don´t open the door) 

The feeling was dizzyingly strong, a deep, upset knowledge of something wrong without being able to place it, and he was afraid to look too closely. 

(Don´t look, it´s not there. There´s nothing to see)

It was like Schrödinger´s cat. As long as he didn´t look it was neither dead nor alive, and that was just fine, because as long as it wasn´t proven dead everything was alright. Now he needed to go get drunk, thank you very much. Stupid, girly Sam with his stupid, mysterious notebooks that invoked feelings of wrongness. Stupid. 

(Not there, nothing there in the dark.)  
***  
“Are we just going to pretend you didn´t read it?” Sam sounded tired, already half resigned to a bad ending. Like he was waiting for a death sentence, but- 

(no, not going there, nope, nothing to see here. No monsters in the basement as long as the door´s closed.) 

“I don´t know what you´re talking about.” 

Flatly, unable to keep up a façade. The nauseous feeling intensified to the point he wasn´t sure how he was not throwing up already. 

“Dean. You know what it´s about, yeah?”

Of course Sam couldn´t let it go. Dean shouldn´t have snooped, should have left well enough alone. Worn black notebooks were none of his business, he should have stayed away. 

(Worn black notebooks open basement doors, they let out the monsters.)

“No. And I don´t need to know, either.” 

That wasn´t true. He did need to know, but he was afraid of the answer lurking in the shadows and as long as he refused to look it couldn´t bite him. 

“Way to live in denial, Dean.” 

Sam sounded so exhausted, he wasn´t supposed to sound like that. 

“Sammy…” Dean whispered, pleadingly looking at his brother. 

“I just-“ Sam shook his head, sighed. “S´okay. I don´t…I didn´t expect you to find them. I guess I should be mad you went through my stuff, but I should have expected it and I know you didn´t mean to intrude on my privacy, not really. If you don´t wanna talk about it that´s fine.”

Dean´s stomach clenched with that feeling, and he was almost paralyzed with fear.

(What if…what if the reasons aren´t valid anymore? What if I´m not a reason for Sam not to- still not going there. But what if-?) “

No. Sammy, tell me. You- I- you gotta. Please.” It spilled past his lips clumsily, tongue tripping over the words. 

Sam paused, eyes wide and surprised. 

“I- yeah. Okay. So…” he rubbed his neck, sighing. “We both know the list is about reasons not to commit suicide.” 

There. It was out. 

(Out in the open, the basement door gaping, letting out all the shadows with their sharp edges and pointy teeth.)

Dean swallowed, tried to force the messy tangles of his soul back into place. Sam´s eyes softened and he sighed again. 

“Dean, it´s okay. I didn´t do it, right? It´s fine. It´s in the past, it´s over, whatever. Nothing to worry about.” 

The strangled sound was more a sob than it was a laugh and they both froze in shock when it ripped from Dean´s throat. He felt like he was choking in the lump lodged in his throat and the burn behind his eyes was acidic. 

“Nothing to-? Sam!” 

Sam threw up his hands, desperation warring with exasperation on his face. “Well, what do you want me to say? I´m not going to go off and kill myself, Dean, if that´s what you want to know. It was a bad time, I was unhappy, it´s over.” 

Dean closed his eyes, bit his tongue until it bled and he didn´t feel the urge to scream anymore. 

(Monsters, Monsters in the basement, shouldn´t open doors.) 

“Okay.” He bit out. “Okay.” 

His eyes snapped open when huge Sasquatch arms wrapped around him, pulling him against a broad chest. Swallowing harshly he forced himself to scoff, patting Sam´s back awkwardly. 

“Yeah, alright dude. Enough, come on. No chick-flick moments, remember?” 

Sam pulled back and gave Dean a smile that didn´t look happy at all. 

“Yeah, I remember.” 

There was a brief silence (the monster is behind the door again and the door is locked), and then Sam grinned. 

“Anyway, I saw a bar on our way here. You feel up to some pool?” 

Dean slapped on the expected answering grin and punched Sam´s shoulder. 

“Always up to kicking your ass, bitch.” 

They grabbed their jackets and got ready to head out, but Sam paused in the door. 

“Seriously, Dean. It was long ago, just an unhappy time. Let it go.” He said softly, and Dean nodded. 

(But what about now, Sammy? Are you happy now? Are the monsters gone?)  
***  
The door slammed, rattling in its rusty hinges. Sam´s shoulders slumped and he sat down heavily, head in his hands. The fight had been short, but all the more hurtful for it. 

“He didn´t mean it, Sammy.”

(Yes he did. But I need you to believe he didn´t. There´s a monster in the basement and it won´t stop scratching at the door.)

“Don´t be ridiculous, Dean.” Sam sounded tired, the way he´d sounded when he´d confronted Dean about the fucking notebook, the way he´d sounded before- 

(not going there. Not going there, the door is locked, don´t let it out.) 

“Of course he meant it. Dad is never going to accept my decision, or forgive it, for that matter.” He looked up, expression bleak and empty. “I can´t be the son he wants, that’s what it comes down to.”

Sam shook his head with an unhappy chuckle. “Go after him. Make sure he gets back safe, we both know he´ll get drunk no matter what you say.” 

Dean hesitated. Sam was right, he needed to make sure John would return to the motel unharmed, but… 

(Monsters are waiting and scratching and rattling the door)

“I´ll be fine, Dean.” 

Sometimes he wondered whether Sam could read minds or he was just an open book. Wasn´t sure which possibility was scarier. He nodded, grabbed his jacket. Sam was still sitting at the table, staring at the peeling paint and- 

(Dark, the basement is dark, don´t open the door, don´t turn of the light) 

The door closed behind him with a soft snick.  
***  
For once Dean didn´t feel comfortable at a bar. It wasn´t because it was an especially terrible bar, as far as bars went this one was better than their average establishment. But his skin felt too tight and his body was too heavy. 

(Shadows and creatures and claws, don´t turn of the light) 

He threw the bartender a flirty smile anyway, leaning across the counter until he could smell her sweet, flowery perfume to ask if she´d seen a bearded guy in a leather jacket. She was pretty, tight top almost bursting at the chest, but her lipstick was bright red, the color of- 

(Shhh. Don´t look. There´s nothing there.) 

He thanked her politely when she pointed out a corner booth and turned away with the sick feeling stronger than ever.

John wasn´t very drunk yet. He´d ordered an entire bottle of Jack, but it was almost full. The glass, on the other hand, was filled. 

(Another basement, other monsters. Don´t look there either, they´re too close already.) 

“Hey dad.” 

The words weighed heavier than usual, his lips felt numb. He slid into the booth across his father, facing him without looking him in the eye. John´s entire frame was vibrating with fury, eye contact was a bad idea. 

(Basements shouldn´t be entered, leave the monsters alone and they sleep.) 

“I don´t understand why you´re not mad. You should be angrier than I am.” 

Dean sighed, shook his head. “I was angry at him long enough. It was his decision, whether we approve or not, and he has a right to make his own decisions.” 

It was a truth that had been hard to swallow, but the notebook had made it easier to accept. 

(Sam knew about the monsters, he tried to close that door forever.)

John huffed, a sharp, angry sound. “He left his family behind for a silly dream. Not to speak of his responsibility to the people we save.” Dean swallowed. 

(Saving people, hunting things, ignoring monsters behind rotting doors. The family business.) 

“What does it matter? He´s back, so leave him alone. It´s cost him enough.” 

(Just a little fire, maybe the door wasn´t closed tightly enough.)

“If he hadn´t walked out on us the girl wouldn´t have burned.” 

The rough words made Dean flinch. He thought of Sam, trying to run back into the burning flat. Thought of weeks of hidden and not so hidden tears, of nightmares and mothers burning on the ceiling. 

“Don´t you ever say that.” Firm, that´s good. A muscle jumped in John´s jaw, but he didn´t say any more about it.

“He needs to accept his place and stop disobeying and questioning my orders.” 

John insisted, and Dean couldn´t help it. He laughed, sharp and raw and full of- 

(shadows and monsters and open doors) 

He knew his father was staring at him, but he couldn´t stop, couldn´t care. The jagged pieces of his soul caught as they rubbed against each other.

“He´s better than both of us.” He said, finally. “And he will never be your soldier. He´s not me, Dad, he had a chance at being happy.”

It was the closest he´d ever come to acknowledging- 

(Nothing, shhh, not there. That monster is sleeping as well, its fed well with broken dreams. Don´t wake it up, it´ll only hurt.)

“Had? If he´d just accept he´s a hunter instead of daydreaming about being a lawyer, or whatever, he could be happy right now! He´s just too stubborn-“

Dean interrupted him. “Sam will never be happy as a hunter. There are things you don´t know about the time before he left, things I didn´t know either.”

(Like monsters in basements behind locked doors that are opened by worn leather notebooks.)  
“And what would that be?”

John´s eyes were narrowed and Dean sighed. He didn´t want to think about worn black leather notebooks (and the basement, don´t forget the basement with the rattling door) but John needed to know or the fighting would never stop. 

(Are you happy, Sammy? Are your reasons still enough?)

“Come back to the motel and I´ll show you.”  
***  
Sam wasn´t in the room, but there was a note with a room number on it. The notebook was in Dean´s duffel. Sam had never asked to have it back, so he´d kept it. 

(Maybe he knows it´s a key, maybe he doesn´t want to open doors he can´t close again) 

He pulled it out with hands itching to put it aside, burn it, maybe, anything but having to touch it. His skin crawled where it touched the worn black leather and he dropped it into John´s hand like it was poisonous. 

(It is, it´s the stinger of the monster, it poisons you and makes you open the door so the monster can come out)

John eyed it, confusion battling with annoyance. 

“What am I supposed to do with that?” he snapped, and Dean licked his lips, forcing his eyes away from the thing. 

“Read it, Dad. Sam wrote it before he left, I´m not sure how far it dates back. Maybe months, maybe years. It might help you to understand why he left.” 

The words dried out then. His heart was beating fast, the familiar nausea churning in his guts. 

“I´m going for a walk. Just read it.” He muttered and fled the room.

(Fled the room, fled the notebook, fled the basement and the door and the monster scratching louder. Are you happy, Sammy? How many reasons are left?)  
***  
It was early morning when Dean returned, his feet aching and his teeth chattering. He´d walked for hours, trying to leave the feeling behind, but it was like walking circles and meeting himself back at the beginning.

(The door is rattling. The monster is scratching. Don´t look.)

When he opened the door he found his father had gotten exactly as much sleep as he had. John was sitting at the table Sam had vacated the evening before when he´d gotten another room. The notebook was on the other end of the table as though John was afraid it might bite him. 

(I know the feeling. It might. Rattling doors are dangerous.)

When John heard him he looked up. He looked old, older than Dean had seen him, the lines around his eyes and mouth much deeper in the shitty motel room lighting. The restless night had left bruised looking rings around his suspiciously red rimmed but dry eyes. 

(He opened the door. He went into the basement. Did you see the monster, dad?)

“Is it- did he-?”

Dean understood. There were no words, the answer was untouchable. You weren´t allowed to say it out loud. 

(Not without letting the monster out. Sam did. Sam said it. He wrote the notebook, he made a key for the door.)

“Yes.”

(Are you happy, Sammy? Am I still reason enough? Is the list long enough?)


End file.
